оз: Staring at his own reflection, Marshall feels the creeps, freezes the way a bear between bare, stunted trees, peering into the unknown, gazing at a barrel of a gun in hands of someone he is yet to recognize: a fleeting, familiar faces from a life before, switching in a spinning kaleidoscope, never the same, uncaught and unseen. In these fever-like daydreams Oz recognises nothing but a hissing sound of a running bullet.
...But picking up a phone call, whispering a hangover Hello into nothingness, Oz expects his mom to draw back, to inquire, Who is this, where is my son?